


A Ghostly Companion

by KaireeDahl



Category: Hannibal (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mischa is Harry Potter, Neo-Paganism, No Incest, Not Beta Read, Not really sure what else to put, Paganism, Reincarnation, Rituals, Yearly drabbles kinda format, death talk, ghost!Mischa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaireeDahl/pseuds/KaireeDahl
Summary: Will Graham could see dead people.  Well, really it was just the one dead person, a girl named Mischa who used to be called Harry.  And she'd been with him his whole life.Horrible at summaries, hope you enjoy? :)
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter & Harry Potter, Hannibal Lecter & Mischa Lecter, Will Graham & Harry Potter, Will Graham & Mischa Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 23
Kudos: 338





	1. The Beginning: 1984

**Author's Note:**

> Things to know,  
> Hannibal is born 1966  
> Mischa is born 1970 and dies 1976  
> Will is born 1979  
> I don't know any other language beside a few Japanese phrases and some high school Spanish, so please forgive any horribly translated words/phrases I use. I'm relying mainly on google for this.

**1984**

He first saw her when he was five.

She was his age, with pretty brown hair and a blue dress. She looked a lot like the kids with lots of friends, so he was confused as to why she was sitting on the swings by herself, just watching the other kids with a sad look.

He was not a very forward boy himself, in fact he was painfully shy, at times to the point of speechlessness, but he saw how lonely she looked, could feel it himself, and wanted desperately to talk to her.

He didn’t though, because that would require talking to someone beside his dad.

He did watch her though, for the rest of recess, occasionally glancing up from his drawing to see her in the same place.

This happened for several days afterwards. She always sat alone on the swing and just watched the other kids play with that same loneliness imbedded in her eyes.

After a few weeks, though, he finally worked up the courage to walk over to the swing next to hers at the beginning of recess and sit down, giving her a very brief, shy smile.

She blinked at him for several moments eyes with a mouth agape. It lasted long enough for him to start regretting coming over, but the she smiled back at him and turned back to watching the kids, a little less sadness in her eyes.

Another few weeks passed in the manner of quiet comradery, but eventually the silence was broken.

Shockingly, he uttered the first words.

“Why donchu play wiffem?” She favored him with a short look of surprise before answering.

“’cause they can’t see me.” He scrunched his brow. Her accent took a moment to decipher.

“Whatchu mean? I can see you good.” She just smile mysteriously. Maybe he didn’t hear her right? He thought for a moment on something else to say. “I’m Will. Who’re you?”

She favored him with a small smile.

“My name is Mischa.”


	2. 1985

**1985**

“Daddy says yur a ‘maginry friend.” Will told his friend one night, talking in his room.

“Do you think I am?” She asked, quirking her head to the side.

“No.” He told her resolutely, crossing his arms over his six-year old chest. “Yur a ghost.”

A smile lit up her face. She nodded happily and hugged him briefly.

He squirmed a bit at the cold air sensation, but as always, couldn’t hug her in return. He was proud of how happy he’d made her, though.

“Can people see you?” He asked after a few moments to bask.

“No.” She replied, shaking her head. “No one besides you, anyway.”

“Whysat?”

She shrugged. “Maybe it’s ‘cause of your brain thing?” he scowled a little at that. “Or maybe we’re related or something?”

“Oh.” He frowned thoughtfully for a few minutes. Finally he shrugged and asked, “Dya wanna play cars?”


	3. 1986

**1986**

“Wuzzat words yur saying?” He asked his friend. “Lavos napkins or somethin’”

“Labos nakties.” She corrected gently. “It means goodnight.”

“Oh. Izzat French?”

“No, it’s Lithuanian.” She said the word slowly a few times for him to repeat.

“Li-thu-ai-ni-an.” He tried. “That where yur from?”

She nodded. “I was born there. I lived there til I was six.”

“Why’d’you leave?”

“There was fighting, and my mama and papa died. My brother and I went into the forest to get away but we ran into some soldiers who were hungry. And then I died.”

“How?” She gave him a sad smile.

“I’ll tell you in a few years.

He frowned but pushed on.

“Can you teach me that Lithu-stuff?”


	4. 1987

**1987**

“How come you don’t get older?” the eight-year old boy asked curiously.

“I died when I was six.”

“But’you don’t talk like yur six.”

She nodded in agreement.

“That’s ‘cause I lived lives before where I was older.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “How old were you?”

“I once lived to 73.”

“That’s older’n Mrs. Ketburn!” She grinned. “Can you look older?”

She shrugged.

“I can try.”


	5. 1988

**1988**

“You said you had a brother?” Mischa hummed in agreement. “What happened to him?”

“He went to live with our uncle in France, I think. He’s 22 now.”

“Why don’t you stay with him?”

“I did, at first.” She began slowly. “But he… wasn’t happy after I died, he couldn’t see me and it made me sad to watch. Then I felt a pull and I followed it to you, and you could see me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry?”

She smiled.

“It’s ok. You’re my friend and my brother is a survivor. He’s fine.”

“Will you check up on him?”

“Maybe in a little while. I don’t know. Last time I saw him he looked a lot older.”

“How old was he before?”

“He was 10 when I died. And then when he was 12, Uncle Robert found him and took him in. I felt the pull to you when he was 18. I haven’t really looked since.”

“Do you wanna see him again?”

“Maybe. I really don’t know. I don’t agree with a lot of what he’s done.” She frowned not going into detail. “I think I have to make up my mind about his choices first.”


	6. 1989

**1989**

“This class is real boring.” He muttered in Lithuanian. The teacher chattered on obliviously about math while Mischa snickered.

“But your really good at it!” She declared happily. She still looked six, but had admitted she wasn’t trying very hard to change her appearance. “I was always bad at math. I was better at language and running around.”

He stared at his notebook for a moment in thought.

“Do you know any other languages?” He finally asked, still speaking in Lithuanian, much to his living neighbor’s confusion.

Mischa nodded happily.

“I know lots! French, German, Spanish, Italian, Latin, Greek, Irish, Japanese, Korean, and Polish. I learned most of them in my other lives. The ones before I was Mischa.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Can we start with French?”

“Instead of math, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

She snorted but began helpfully explaining the basics to the ten-year-old.


	7. 1990

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longer than usual, and I'm thinking it might be the length of the future chapter as well.  
> As I have recently been informed, my writing style is more stream of conciousness than anything planned or edited, so if you notice any inconsistencies, please let me know. Thank you!
> 
> Also, be warned, my beta is spell check.

** 1990 **

When she’d first started hanging around him, his idle comments and the full-on conversations he had with the air had been passed off as an imaginary friend.

But he was eleven— almost twelve— now, and his father, the school councilors, and teachers were all beginning to get concerned. His dad had even resorted to taking him to a session with a therapist. A free one, admittedly, but it was still a big move for his dad.

The therapist hadn’t said anything he hadn’t expected. Overactive imagination, overdeveloped mirror-neurons, isolation in childhood, as well as a bunch of other issue that neither he nor Mischa full understood.

The therapist, a Dr. Sharon— ‘call me Sherry’— Carson, was almost able to convince Will’s dad that he was somewhere on the mental retardation spectrum. At least, until she dared to mention a battery of tests.

Ever since his dad had learned about the mirror-neuron thing, he’d been adamant about no testing.

So, they’d stormed out of there in a huff. Dr. Carson had called after him about involving the state.

Not long after, summer came, and his dad announced they’d be moving again.

He wasn’t alone in noticing the series of events.

“He doesn’t want them to take you away.” She told him as they sat in the back of his dad’s truck. She was watching the older Graham fondly. “He’s protective of you.”

Will, with his headphones on but the CD player off, responded in German.

“I know, but why do the doctors want to take me away from him? He’s my dad.” He said it as monotone as he could, as though he were repeating from the CD.

His dad glanced back at his voice, but seeing the headphones on, smiled proudly and went back to driving.

“Because they don’t understand you. People fear what they don’t understand.” Mischa told him, patting his hand sympathetically.

“How do I get them to _stop_?”

“Well,” she said after a moment of thought, “you could try to act more to their standard of normal.”

“What do you mean by that?” He narrowed his eyes slightly at her, not liking the hesitation in her tone.

“I could stay away, or quiet, when you in public.” She offered. “It would get people off your back about a possible schizophrenia diagnosis.”

“But… wouldn’t you be really bored?” She’d always been bored in his classes, save for a few of his English ones. Not being able to speak or interact with anyone besides him made her days pass extremely slow. Disregarding the fact that she didn’t need sleep.

He realized he didn’t really know what she did while he slept, either.

“I could go check on my brother.” She said finally. “He’s about 24 now and he’s probably got a job. Or I could just go visit Rome or something and tell you about it after school.”

While he did still think that she should go see her brother, he couldn’t help the small part of him that felt jealous of the unknown man. Mischa was _his_ friend. _He_ knew her better than anyone else.

It was a stupid feeling, though, and one he regretted. Mischa was so disappointed whenever she failed to speak to someone. Even supposed psychics couldn’t see or sense her.

That did still leave him with a dilemma, however.

He wanted to know even more about his friend. A territorial part of him wanted to know everything about her, stuff that _no one_ else knew, not even her own brother.

“Hm. I could tell you about my first life.” She reasoned after Will hesitantly told her his thoughts. She completely disregarded the territorialism and unfounded antagonism toward her brother, though he wasn’t sure if she was just ignoring it or simply didn’t care. “My first life didn’t really even begin until I was about your age, anyway.”

“How old did you live in that life?”

“147.” She told him, much to his shock. “And I’m pretty sure it’s the reason I’m here now.”

He could do nothing but nod.

That was the summer he learned about magic, other worlds, the bonds of friendship, and very long life of a man named Harry James Potter, the boy-who-lived and the Master of Death.


	8. 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit late, but I'd intended it to be posted on Halloween. The internet, however, didn't want to cooperate, so here it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, the ritual described in this chapter is in part taken from wiccanuniverse.com I am not pagan, though I have always been interested in the rituals, rites, and ceremonies. I am particularly interested in the apothecary side of it, too. Any advise give would be greatly appreciated.  
> That said, my old roommate, who is pagan, helped me to adjust the ritual a bit (i.e. the household substitutes like Yankee candles instead of pillar candles). However, seeing as we are separated by states I might have gotten a few things wrong in translation. I apologize in that case, and I am open to friendly and knowledgeable criticism. If someone in the audience sees something missing or wrong with the ritual or descriptions, please let me know.  
> Also, feeling in a writey mood so I might drop another chap later today. Thank you for your kind words, so far!  
> Love you all!

**1991**

“Why are you reading this?” Mischa asked incredulously as she read the page over his shoulder. “I thought you hated horror stuff.”

“I don’t like horror _movies,”_ he corrected. “I feel what the actors are feeling. But since they’re not actually scared most of the time, its kinda boring.”

“Oh.” She nodded with realization. “But why IT?”

“Well, the movie came out last year and everyone at school’s talking about it all the time.” He shrugged. “I thought I’d see what all the hype is. Also, it’s Halloween. I thought I’d be festive, or something.”

“Well, is it any good?” She questioned thoughtfully.

He shrugged noncommittally. It was really too early to tell.

She sighed and began perusing the room for what might have been the millionth time. Her intangible fingers ghosted over book spines and posters and boxes. She was quiet in her walk about, her feet hitting the floor as silently as her breath. Her expression was placid and bored, but she wasn’t sighing heavily or trying to attract his notice.

He sighed heavily.

It may not have been her intent, but he’d spent the last few minutes watching her circuit, and not reading the library book. He placed the bookmark at the correct page and shut it, placing it in his bookbag.

Mischa turned to him, curious as to why he’d stopped reading.

“You were a witch – or wizard, I guess – and it’s Halloween.” He reasoned. “Isn’t it supposed to be an important day for you or something?”

Her lips twisted into a delighted smile.

“There are a few things we could do, if you wanted.” She began slowly.

He nodded. She beamed.

“Alright then, we need to gather a few things first.” She directed.

Ten minutes and one extensive scavenger hunt later, he placed all his prizes on his bed.

A mostly black blanket, a bowl of tap water, a variety of colored and scented candles (left by the previous homeowner), a walnut shell, a slice of Wonder bread, some apple juice, a lighter, and some fresh sage, stolen from the neighbor’s garden.

She guided him through how to ‘cleanse’ his room with the sage and a lighter. Then she pointed out exactly where to set up each of the candles on top of the blanket.

Finally deeming the set up acceptable, she had him sit down across from her.

She pointed at each candle to light as she spoke.

“Lady, may your love and magic shine upon us in bounty and in loss.” The grey candle was lit. “Lord, though extinguished for a time, you light will return to us.” The yellow candle was lit and then quickly snuffed out. “I mourn and celebrate the death of the God. For the Light is now short, yet our harvest is great, and the light will rekindle again, the cycle begin anew in Nature. I take comfort also in knowing that no soul is lost or forsaken on the Wheel. Blessed be your rest, Lord.”

She turned to him. “Place the bowl in front of you with the candle right here. Put the bread on your left and the juice on your right. Take a piece of the bread and dip it in the juice. Okay, and repeat after me. I offer this sustenance.”

“I offer this sustenance.”

“To those who have passed before me.”

“To those who have passed before me.”

“This bread of earth and air.”

“This bread of earth and air.”

“And this drink of fire and water.”

“And this drink of fire and water.”

“With the union of two.”

“With the union of two.”

“They become whole.”

“They become whole.”

“And I offer it to my ancestors.”

“And I offer it to my ancestors.”

“To the Gods and Goddesses who would have it.”

“To the Gods and Goddesses who would have it.”

“Alright, place the bread into the shell and take a moment to think of anyone who’s passed on.”

He frowned in concentration. He didn’t think his mom was dead but he spared a moment for her, in case she was. He never met his grandma who Daddy loved to tell stories about, but he thought of her, too. There was a dog that he’d found that had been hit by a car. She didn’t have a name, but the poor pup deserved someone to remember her.

He also thought of Mischa. He wasn’t sure if she had _passed on_ exactly, but she _was_ dead. So, maybe?

The ghost in question lifted her head up after a moment and directed him to light the black, black tie scented candle(whatever that meant).

“This candle serves as a lantern,” she intoned solemnly, “to guide those that have passed before us. I invite those with good hearts and intentions to join. Harmful or bad intentions will be turned away, only positive ones will be welcomed. With this candle, we illuminate this circle as a beacon to those that have passed whom we love and cherish.”

She turned her attention to him.

“Now place the candle behind the bowl, yes there is good. Now, you look into the bowl of water. You can think of loved ones or friends, a deity if you know any, and you ask them questions.” She smiled. “They may not always choose to answer, maybe because you already know the truth, but they are listening, regardless. Take as long as you’d like.”

She focused her eyes on the reflection in the water. After a moment, her eyes went unfocused as she sank deeper into her thought.

Will tried to copy her. The few times she’d tried to help him meditate and ‘clear his mind’ (usually when he’d been particularly overwhelmed by other’s emotions) hadn’t really worked, but maybe this was different?

Well, he’d try it, at least.

If his mom _was_ dead, he really wanted to ask her, _Why did you leave?_ If she wasn’t, it didn’t really matter to him anymore. It wasn’t like he was alone, or anything.

He wasn’t really sure what to ask his grandma. Maybe, _What was Daddy like as a kid?_ That seemed right. Old people liked talking about their kids, didn’t they?

The dog… _Did you have a name? A family who misses you?_ He thought a moment and added, _Who’s a good girl?_

What did he ask Mischa? She was right in front of him.

He moved on.

The only deities he knew of were the two he mentioned and the Catholic one. Unless the Greek ones counted. Did they? He scrunched his nose in thought. _Well, it wouldn’t hurt,_ he thought to himself, shrugging. 

But that left him with a struggle. What did ask a god? Were you supposed to ask for a good harvest or something? Maybe healthy children or lots of money?

Well, he didn’t farm but maybe he should start a garden? He didn’t have kids, either, and he didn’t really need money.

He thought of his friend, who had been so bored this past year. Who was struggling more and more with the lack of stimulation. She had visited her brother a lot at the beginning, but he could tell that even with the new place to explore, she was bored.

 _Was there a way to help Mischa?_ He asked. _I know you probably can’t bring her to life or anything, but she’d real bored. Maybe you can, like, let her touch stuff, like ghosts in the movies?_

That felt like a good question. Or was it technically a prayer? His Daddy had never been religious to Will’s knowledge, so he didn’t really know what counted.

A cool breeze brushed over the back of his neck as the scent of pumpkin pie filled his nose.

That was strange. He didn’t think any of the candles had been pumpkin anything.

He lifted his eyes to search for the foreign smell but found only Mischa looking at him, waiting with a patient smile.

“Are you ready to continue?” 

He nodded quickly.

“Alright.” She adopted her solemn tone once more. It looked particularly strange on her face. “Take another piece of bread and dip it into the juice again. Good, then repeat after me again.”

“I offer more of the food that sustains me.”

“I offer more of the food that sustains me.”

“Soaking up some drink.”

“Soaking up some drink.”

“To quench the thirst of the thirsty.”

“To quench the thirst of the thirsty.”

“Thank you for coming to me.”

“Thank you for coming to me.”

“Sharing in your wisdom, guidance, and company.”

“Sharing in your wisdom, guidance, and company.”

“Now you drink the juice and eat the bread.” She directed. Once he was finished, she guided him through ‘closing the circle,’ which involve blowing out the remaining candles in a specific order.

Once everything was blown out and all of the found items had been placed in their original spots she sat next to him on the bed and asked, “What did you think?”

“Did you do that a lot?” He asked curiously.

“When I was alive? Only after my seventeenth birthday.” She told him. “And only on Samhain. Other times of the year have different rituals, and none of them are _mandatory,_ per say.” She pursed her lips in thought. “It’s kinda like choosing to celebrate Christmas with presents. You don’t have to. I’m pretty sure the religion doesn’t mandate presents. But people like to give and receive gifts, so they do.”

“Oh.” He nodded, mostly understanding what she meant. “ _Do_ you want to? Celebrate the other rituals, too?” He clarified.

“I’d like that, yes.” She told him, a small smile on her cheeks. “But you don’t need to, really. Like I said, it’s not required. It’s just comforting.”

He nodded again. He was about to ask another question when he heard Daddy’s truck pull into the driveway. He scrambled to get into his pajamas and raced into bed in a panic.

Mischa watched his antics with amused indulgence.

So used to this routine was she, that she didn’t bother moving out of Daddy’s way when he came in to check and tuck him in.

Through the slits of his eyes, Will could see Daddy pause in the middle of the room with confusion across his face.

“Smells like a fucking Bath and Beyond.” The man muttered quietly to himself. He shakes his head slightly and then walks over to his son’s bed.

He presses a quick kiss to Will’s exposed forehead, smoothing the blankets over him.

He gets back up with a suppressed grunt of pain, cracking his back noisily as he stood. He winces and glances at Will’s still closed eyes and steady breathing. The man sighs with relief and walks as quietly as he can out the door.

He doesn’t close the door the entire way, though. His Daddy knows he doesn’t like that.

Will frowns and contemplates getting out of bed to quietly shut the door, but Mischa makes the decision for him.

As if on reflex, she presses her hand to the door, clicking it closed.

She turned back to him with a fond smile, obviously not realizing what she’d just done.

Will couldn’t help staring at her with open mouthed astonishment. It took her a few moments of confusion to understand. She looked at her hand and then the door then at Will, eyes just as wide as his.

Spotting a pencil sitting freely on his desk, Mischa makes a grab for it.

It lifts in her hand.

Mischa beams.


	9. 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chap posted today! Make sure to read the other one first!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I'm writing him like this, but Will's dad is the kind of dad I wish I grew up with. I mean, I love my parents a lot, but they were never the most open minded people, coming from a strict Polish-Catholic family and an unnamed southern Christian denomination.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

** 1992 **

He wasn’t quite sure what had caused it, whether it was his little prayer or the ritual itself, but after Halloween (or Samhain) the previous year, she’d been able to interact with a variety of new things.

People were still outside her scope, but she could turn pages now, open doors, and draw.

Well, the last one she could only do when she was alone or with Will. She’d tried to freak one of his bully’s at school by drawing on his homework.

All that happened was the pencil getting knocked off of his desk, like a small gust of wind had hit. Mischa pouted.

It had distracted the bully long enough for him to escape to gym class, though.

He supposed his school standing hadn’t really improved in large part due to some of the drawing and things Mischa had written for him. One of the class’ bullies had glanced at the page titled ‘The Importance of the Moon in Rituals’ and crowed to the rest of the class that Will worshiped Satan.

The teacher had heard and called the principle who called Will’s dad. His dad just looked confused at why everyone was freaking out.

“He ain’t hurtin’ no one.” He decreed after looking at the page they’d confiscated. “So what’s it matter? Innit a religion or somethin’?”

The principle had frowned but hadn’t really been able to argue with that, so they’d both been sent on their way with a stern warning that had his dad frowning.

They sent him home for the day, seeing as his dad was already there, so he didn’t have to suffer through what was bound to be vicious mockery.

His dad had been silent on the ride home, as was normal for the man, but it had been the contemplative sort of silence he got when he was thinking about something one of the doctors or therapists said.

So he wasn’t surprised when, after they got home, his dad sat them both down at the dining table, thoughtful look in his eyes.

“Yer into this ritual stuff, then?” he asked steadily.

Will nodded his head in reply.

“How long this been goin’ on?”

“’bout a year.”

“That why you room smelled funky?” His grimaced at the memory. Will couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped him.

“I only had Yankee candle to work with.” He explained. His dad nodded in understanding.

“What kind ya need?”

He stared for a long few moments at his dad before answering.

“Pillar candles. A variety of colors like black and white, I’d prefer a mild herby scent but unscented works just as well.” He told the older man.

His father nodded again, then he sat for a long few moments staring at the table in thought. Will waited quietly for him to collect his opinions. He spotted Mischa enter the kitchen with a confused tilt to her head, knowing they were home extremely early. He nodded to the counter and she hopped up obligingly, both now waiting for his dad to make the next move.

“Okay.” He finally said, nodding once more.

“Okay?” Will hadn’t really expected his dad to be mad (his dad was too chill for that), but he’d expected some measure of worry.

“I told yer school, you ain’t hurtin nobody. I don’t understand a lick of it, but it’s yer choice, yer life. I just wanchu safe.” He frowned. “You _are_ safe, right?”

“Yeah, daddy.” He smiled in relief. Mischa was grinning at the man fondly from over his shoulder. “I’m safe.”

They hugged, and Will had though that was the end of it.

But not two weeks later, after he came back from school, he found Mischa sitting on his bed next to a variety of newspaper wrapped packages.

“What’s all this?” The smile she wore told him it was his dad. She wore that smile for no one else. “When’d he put all this here?”

“Before he went to work.” She replied happily. “He’s been putting this together for a while. I’ve been watching him.”

“So you know exactly what’s in here?”

“Yup!”

He gave a slightly annoyed glare, but turned his attention back to the packages. They were unmarked, obviously wrapped by his dad’s hand judging by the excess of tape and crumpled corners. He opened one curiously.

A few colored pillar candles obligingly poured out. He picked the red one up, noting it smelt faintly of cinnamon and nutmeg. He put the candle gently down next to the others.

He was _not_ tearing up, thank you.

Taking a quick moment to wipe his cheeks – because they itched, not for any other reason – he turned back to the other packages on the bed.

There was a leather case filled with a variety of different herbs, a small black handled knife, a set of six small copper bowls, a few different types of incense, a variety of colors and sizes of crystals, and some seeds.

Mischa didn’t comment on the audible sniffle he made, which he was eternally grateful for.

After a moment, he got up from his bed, arranging everything very carefully on his desk.

“Do you know any recipes for gumbo?” He asked his friend.

“Of course.” She replied, curiously tilting her head.

“Daddy’s favorite food is gumbo.” He told her, striding with determined steps toward the kitchen.

Mischa grinned and quickly followed.


	10. 1993

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puberty hits poor Will. Mischa's not feeling sympathetic. Also a look into Mischa's morality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I am not a teenage boy, nor have I ever been one. I only know of the base facts about male puberty, and the male mind. I do apologize, but oh well.

** 1993 **

“It’s not funny!” Will declared desperately, burying his face into his pillow. His voice, sadly, betrayed him, and it cracked an octave on the words. He groaned pathetically into the fabric, Mischa’s joyous laughter arching around him.

He’d gone through health class, so he’d had a vague understanding of what was going to happen. But understanding and experiencing were two _very_ different things. It also didn’t help that Mischa was entirely unsympathetic.

As she’d said multiple time (mostly as an excuse to leave him suffering alone in health class) she’d lived multiple lives, sometimes as a man. She’d suffered through this indignity before, multiple times, the thought of which had him shuddering in horror.

Once was feeling horrible enough.

Aside from the squeakiness of his voice (easily hidden at school, because he never really talked to anyone), he was also getting increasingly more pimples that appeared just as fast as they healed, and, to his horror, hair everywhere except his face where he wanted it.

“Hey! No brooding Mr. Broody-pants!” Mischa grinned, smacking his leg in mock comfort. “It’s not the end of the world! You will live!” He contemplated for a long moment about smothering his face into the pillow. Or futilely trying to smother Mischa.

_It would get me out of that Algebra exam on Friday_ , he mused. _But Dad’s bringing Ruby Tuesday’s home for dinner. Hmmm…_

“I bet you weren’t this happy when your brother went through this.” His complaint was muffled by the cloth covering his face. It sounded far too much like a whine to his ears.

Mischa tilted her head considering.

“You’re right.” She agreed after a moment. “But he’s annoyingly good at everything. It also didn’t help much that he was selectively mute for most of the squeakiness.”

Will lifted his head from his pillow, brows furrowed.

“Why was he selectively mute?” He couldn’t control the bafflement he felt from leaking into his voice, which blessedly didn’t crack.

Mischa hummed. “Well, after I … died, he was sent to an orphanage. It wasn’t a good place, somewhere you’d _want_ to send kids.” She considered. “Part of it might have been trauma, my death and all,” she gestured vaguely at the air, “another part, my brother’s shear stubbornness and arrogance.”

“He’s arrogant?”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded her head vigorously, but her accompanying smile was full of affection. “I love him, dearly, but he is an _arrogant_ bastard. He enjoys lording knowledge and abilities over others under the guise of benevolence and friendship.”

Will frowned. “He doesn’t sound like a good person.”

She waved that away. “That doesn’t mean anything. Good and bad, black and white, it’s nonsense. The world is just painted with different shades of grey.” She shrugged. “Everyone interprets these shades differently, for exactly when they turn too dark.”

“When do _you_ think they… turn too dark?” He asked hesitantly. She glanced at him, spotting the hesitance immediately. A bitter, self-deprecating smirk crossed her cheeks, entirely uncharacteristic of the girl.

“My first life? I would have said anything against the law.” She shook her head. “But somewhere in all the lives I’ve lived, the experiences I’ve had, something… shifted. Or maybe it just broke. That definite morality I once had began to _bend_ and _tear_ over the years until – well.” She let out a sharp laugh, devoid of her earlier humor. “Hurting either me or mine? That’s too far for me now. That’s what’s too dark. I don’t really care about anyone else.”

It… made a strange sort of sense. He couldn’t imagine all the lives she’d lived had been strictly ‘moral’ people, even the small amount of stories she’d told him so far. Even in her first, the one where she believed in that black and white mentality, she’d killed, stolen, lied, all in the name of war and protecting others.

And were he in any other mood, any other state then, he would have wanted to debate her, question her opinions until he’d sussed out every little detail out for himself.

But the existential dread the was puberty hung over him. He was being betrayed by his own body.

He allowed his face to plant once more into his pillow, releasing a pathetic groan that traitorously jumped a few octaves at the end.


	11. 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a few things plotted out, but I appreciate any prompts y’all’d like to see.
> 
> Also, I only briefly researched whether or not these things were harmful to dogs. Do not try to feed a dog this, please. No dogs were harmed in the making of this, even fictional ones.

** 1994 **

_Right. This should be simple enough_. Will thought to himself. _I know all the theory. I know what ingredients react with what. Everything should turn out fine._

But still, his hand hesitated over the wormwood he’d chopped up neatly. The water was simmering steadily, as the recipe had directed. Mischa tidy scrawl on the margins advised him that he could prep all the ingredients before hand, so he had. Each ingredient was neatly chopped or sliced and then placed in an individual bowl to the right of his pot on the stove.

Maybe it was because Mischa was in Italy, watching over her brother for the day, instead of watching over his first potions effort. It wasn’t her fault, he hadn’t let her know before she’d left, but he still wished she were watching him for any issues. For when he inevitably messed up.

_Come on. Positivity. You’re supposed to be positive._ He coached himself. It was the one thing he’d taken from his school councilor that week. It hadn’t really worked so far, but he was committed to at least trying. He couldn’t really reach the cheerful she’d been aiming for, he wasn’t a cheerful person by nature, but he could try positive.

Okay, he could do this.

As fast as he could, he grabbed the wormwood bowl and tipped it into the simmering water. Once it was all in he began stirring clockwise, because for some reason the direction the water was stirred mattered.

_Well, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?_ He scolded.

With the first step done, it was easy to keep his momentum going. The dittany root was added after a few more stirs, followed quickly by the scurvygrass leaves.

After that was stirred in, he set a timer for 10 minutes and covered the mixture.

He consulted the recipe once more.

_‘Add the leaves … clockwise …let the mixture simmer for 10 minutes.’ Check, check, and check. ‘Once the mixture has steeped for an adequate time, it should become a translucent fuchsia. At this stage, slowly add the marinated lamb heart. The mixture should be raised to a boil, and cooked for 15 minutes.’_ He glanced at the lamb heart in question. The original recipe had apparently called for _dragon_ heart, but Mischa’s notes had informed him that in a pinch, any heart would do.

The butcher hadn’t even blinked when the fifteen year old had walked in and asked for a lamb heart. It had been $8. $8 for a heart that weighed half a pound. Oof.

Marinating it in a mixture of his own blood, vetiver grass (for it’s psychic protection), fennel (for it’s purifying properties), and water, was a little difficult to explain, but it only needed to sit for a few hours before it was ready for use.

The timer beeped in his ear, prompting him to lift the lid and slowly drop the heart in. He was pleased to note the water was fuchsia, or at least a pink-purple that he _assumed_ was fuchsia. He wasn’t well versed in color theory like Mischa; his brief foray into art class was just that, brief.

He reset the timer and placed the lid back on. Then he went about sanitizing the empty Old Ezra whiskey bottle and stopper his dad had let him claim. He took the cheesecloth and funnel and set that in the bottle’s mouth.

Once the timer went off once more, Will took the pot and poured it as carefully as he could through the cheesecloth, stopping any chunks from getting through.

The liquid, once it poured through was a pleasant purple color that swirled faintly with undulating silver strands.

It seemed like he’d made it correctly. He wasn’t really in the mood to test it on himself, he didn’t quite need it just yet, but he’d like to call this a success. Hopefully when Mischa got back, she’d agree and then he could start using it.

He pressed the stopper in with a faint ‘pop,’ and then set about cleaning up the mess he made. The remainder of the blood mixture went straight down the drain and the foil pan he’d used was thrown out. Didn’t want his dad accidentally using it for roast or something.

Cleaning up everything else went quickly. He’d already had all the extra herbs packed away in his kit, and returned it to his room. The used ones were thrown away, while the heart he was going to the pregnant stray dog living in the drainage ditch by his school. He packed that away in a Tupperware container and shoved it back in the fridge.

All and all, it took about twenty minutes for the kitchen to be reorganized and cleaned. Then he grabbed his completed potion and brought it to his room.

He wasn’t quite sure when Mischa would be dropping back in so he set about finishing up the essay he’d been assigned for history.

~~~

Her return was silent, almost unacknowledged, save for the quick twitch of his eyes up from his notebook. He slid his gaze to the clock on his desk. It was 7:28 PM, meaning she’d left Italy at … 2 AM? What was he brother doing at 2 AM aside from sleeping? Didn’t doctors have to come in early at like 5 AM or something?

He shook his head.

Sliding away from his desk and stretching his arms up, he turned to face her more fully.

She’d already noticed what he’d made and was peering over it carefully, lifting the top and sniffing, jostling it slightly to see the swirl.

“Sheep heart?” She asked turning to him.

“Lamb.” He corrected. She nodded.

“It’s not as strong as it would be with a dragon heart, but I take it this isn’t for warding off Legilimancy.” She said sardonically.

“I figured from what you said, it’d work for empathy, just as well.” He agreed.

“You’d be right.” She frowned. “You didn’t try any of it before I got here did you?”

He shook his head.

“Didn’t know if I’d done it right, yet.” He answered. “Did I?”

“Well,” she began, peering at it once more, “I don’t think it’ll pass Snape’s strict grading standards, but it looks good. Are you intending to use it as a preventative or curative?”

He considered that.

“Preventative would be nice, not having to deal with the overload of emotions for a while. But you said it was addictive.” He reminded her. “So, taking some when I get too overwhelmed and avoiding eye contact is probably healthier.”

She nodded.

“I’d say so. It’ll also last you longer. I’d say a month or two depending on how often you use it. You know the correct dosage amount?”

“Mmhm. I also used my blood as an anchor in the marinade.”

Her brow shot up in surprised. He thought she looked impressed.

“That should make it a bit more effective. You might consider pig heart, next time.” She advised. “They’re incredibly similar to human hearts and so the reaction with your blood would be stronger.”

For his curiosity, he had to ask, “What if I used a human heart?”

She didn’t even blink.

“It, coupled with your blood as an anchor would basically be equivalent to using a dragon heart with no blood.” She tilted her head for a moment before continuing. “A lot of the older rituals and potions used the shedding of blood as a binding or strengthening. I believe it was called ‘Life’ magic. Eventually, though, that was replace by the more technical incantations and recipes that I learned. That type of magic is dependent on foci. Wands, specifically, but there was the odd witch or wizard who used a ring or staff.”

“So what are you teaching me, then?” He squinted at her.

“Something akin to natural, ‘Primal,’ magic.” She informed him happily. “It’s more fluid, prone to change, and it adapts easily to the user’s will. You can personalize spells and potions to how many people are participating, or a specific need. It’s an incredibly powerful force under the right circumstance. However,” she amended, “it takes time, which is where foci based magic excels. My first life, I could heal – or harm – with a flick of the wrist and a few words.”

“Should I get a foci or some sort then?”

She thought a moment.

“Maybe. But I doubt you’ll be able to use that sort of magic here. There’s not enough ambient magic for it. It would probably make your rituals more powerful, though.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “I think on it and tell you what I come up with. For now, you’re fine.”

He accepted this. Seeing it was getting late, Will turned back to his paper. Mischa glanced once more at his Sindets Vagt potion with approval and then pulled her own notebook out and began writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindets Vagt : Guard of the Mind  
> curtesy of google translate Danish


	12. 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy Will turns 16. Mischa gives him gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not alive in 1995, so I'm not sure about the exact abilities of the internet. I figured chat rooms were a safe bet though.

** 1995 **

“Happy birthday!” Mischa cheered, hovering above his head at – he glanced at the clock – 6:35 AM. Ugh.

He turned over and burrowed back under his covers, he still had another hour until he had to actually be up. He did his best to ignore the amused breath his friend huffed out above him. He heard the tell tale flick of the light switch. A moment later there was an insistent tug on his blankets, and light surged over him, ignoring the meager protection his lids gave.

He whined, grasping blindly for the stolen fabric.

“C’mon, Birthday Boy!” Mischa exclaimed, patting his shoulder in mock comfort. “I gotta give you your presents before you head off to school!”

He squinted angrily in Mischa’s direction, only slightly surprised to see a teenage girl where the six year old should have been.

He buried his head under his pillow.

“Awww.” She moaned in mock disappointment. “I was hoping for more of a reaction than that! Not even a ‘Who are you?’”

“No one else is as annoying as you.” He muttered, though through sleep and pillow it sounded more like, “N’on el’noy yu."

She snickered, though, apparently able to understand him.

“Well, at least that’s one present out of the way.” She decided. “But I still gotta give you your other one. So, c’mon. Get outta bed!” She smacked his flannel-covered thigh impatiently.

He sighed, and after a moment sat up on the edge of his bed, groaning in irritation.

She cheered once more, doing a circuit around the room before settling down. She plopped a box on his lap, small and neatly wrapped in a grey wrapping paper tied with a dark blue ribbon.

“Go on, open it!” She urged, eagerly awaiting his reaction.

He favored her with a short glare, but obligingly began opening the box.

It was a jewelry box. He frowned at it for a moment in confusion, but the strong smell of herbs and flowery incense assaulted his nose.

He recoiled, giving Mischa a long look. She gestured for him to open it with an excited grin.

He released another sigh before carefully lifting the lid.

The culprit responsible for the smell was immediately evident, dried herbs and what he believed was potpourri sat in place of a velvet liner. Sitting in the center, in a small nest of dried sage leaves, sat a ring.

He lifted it from the box, setting that to the side, and began studying the ring.

“It’s iron.” Mischa explained. “Traditionally, it’s used to ward off spirits and ghosts. It obviously doesn’t work on me, but I thought the symbolism mattered.” She added. “If you look here,” she pointed, “you can see a rune I had her carve in.”

He peered at the indicated rune – which looked like the lovechild of N and H – , wracking his tired brain for the name of it.

“…Hagalas?” He guessed after a long moment.

She beamed.

“Yup. It’s meant to keep your spirit and thought in balance.” She informed him. “Runes like these you usually have to charge every so often, but with the way you’ll be using it, that’s not really necessary.”

“How will I be using it?” He asked mechanically.

“As a focus.” She declared.

“Oh.” He stopped. It took a few minutes for his brain to reboot. “Ooooh. For rituals.”

She nodded. “The ring should help infuse a calm, centered feeling to you rituals and potions. You can only do so much with ambiently powered runes, so you’ll probably still have to use you potion every so often, but this’ll let those smaller moments wash away.”

He slid it onto his middle finger. It was still a little big, but not too much. He’d probably grow into it soon, with the way he was shooting up.

“Thank you.” He offered. He was truly appreciative, and she seemed to understand this. But just as her smile was tinged with mischief, his was awash in irritation.

“Where’d you get it from?” He finally asked, spinning the ring idly on his finger.

“Oh, I’ve been chatting with some Wiccan’s online.” She told him. “While you’re asleep or at school, I find somewhere with an open computer and head into a chat room. One of the ladies I was talking with, Lillian, makes jewelry on the side. In exchange for a few of my own rituals and some herbs, she was happy to send that over.”

“Where do you find computers?” He asked, perking up with interest.

“The library has one or two. An office or a law firm usual has a couple. Richer neighborhoods. A few cafes have them, too.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Can you show me how to get into one of these chat rooms?”

“Sure! I’d be happy to.” She sighed happily. “I have to say, I have missed the internet.”

He squinted at her.

“Death and time get a little wonky.” She waved away the look. “You figure, my first life I was born 1987. The one after that, 1933. Then 1650, 2052, 1961, etc. Most of the lives I’ve lived, I’ve had some form of the internet. It’s super useful.” She advised him.

“Huh.” He shrugged, marking that for a future conversation.

He grabbed the herb-filled box and plopped on his desk, before returning to his bed, yanking the cover quickly over he head. Mischa’s laugh was muffled by the blankets, but he was doing his best to ignore her.

His eyes closed. A measure of sleep still fogged his mind, so it wasn’t difficult to let the fog spread. It wasn’t long before he was drifting and drifting and drifting…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

His alarm clock shrilled at him angrily from the foot of his bed. The lights indicating 7:25 AM.

It was time to get ready for school.


	13. 1996

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Mischa in this chapter, but there are dogs. Also a chat with a school councilor that sounds a lot like the one I had with my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation with the councilor sounds almost exactly like the one I had with my guidance councilor in high school, where I basically panicked and said I'd go to college for the first thing that popped into my head. It turned out poorly. My advise kids, go to a community college and take some random classes as well as like English and math. That way, you know more what you'd like to do and get your core class done for cheap.
> 
> I'm not happy with the title, so if there are any suggestions, please let me know! I suck at titles...
> 
> Not beta'd as usual. Wrote this while my trainer was helping other people with tech issues for two hours.

** 1996 **

“Well, Mr. Graham.” His councilor began as soon as he sat down. “The deadline for college and scholarship applications is approaching soon.” A lie, there were still three and a half months left. He was keeping track. “With your transcripts as they currently are, I’m sure you’ll be accepted to most of the colleges you apply.” True. Straight A’s since kindergarten apparently looked good to schools. “You just need to maintain these good grades until graduation. Did you have any ideas what you’d like to be doing for the rest of your life?”

Ideas, sure. He had plenty of ideas. Some of them were even feasible.

He’d like to have twenty dogs and live alone in the woods for the rest of his life. He’d like to travel the world with Mischa. He’d like to give her a body back (One of his less feasible ideas). He’d like to be able to turn off his empathy at will. He’d like for his dad to live forever. He’d like to know why his mom left. He’d like to eat whatever he wanted without consequence. He’d like a billion dollars. He’d like to sleep for the rest of his life.

Okay, that last one was mainly due to sleep deprivation.

But the point still stood. A lot of his ideas were stupid or wouldn’t go anywhere, and he was well aware of that.

Still, he had to respond.

“Uh, I guess I wanna be a cop?” Even to his own ears that was weak. Did he want to be a cop? Maybe. It looked vaguely cool. He wanted to be a Rockstar just as much and for about the same reason.

“A police officer!” His councilor beamed at him, sickly sweet positivity radiating off of her. He retreated as far as he could in his creaky chair. “What a wonderful idea! Were you thinking of applying before you graduated? Or were you looking to do something else?”

“I, uh, I was plannin’ on gettin’ a bachelors degree first.” He replied uneasily. “You need a degree to be a detective.” He added.

“You’ve done your research!” She commended, writing something on a piece of paper in his file. “That’s wonderful news. Any degree ideas, yet?”

“Not really.” He shook his head. His nails picked at the edge of the wooden armrest. “Not anything specific.”

“That’s just fine. But you should keep it in mind going forward.” Something else was written down. “Have you gotten any letters of recommendation from your teachers, yet? Any plans on who to ask?”

“Ms. Daily said she’d give me a letter. And Mr. Gonzales.” Both nice teachers. Both thought a lot of him, which was a pleasant feeling even if it was a lot of pressure. Both thought the rumors of Satan worship and magic were absolutely ridiculous slander.

Okay, well, the rumors were mostly not true. He definitely didn’t worship Satan. He had no idea where that had come in, especially with a confirmed Satanist at this school, Jonah. Maybe it was because they occasionally sat together at lunch? They’d only spoken about five times in the two years he’d gone to this high school, could barely be considered ‘acquaintances.’

Nice guy, though.

“Ms. Daily, your English teacher?” His councilor asked, jotting that down as well. “And Mr. Gonzales is your… Chemistry teacher?” He nodded his confirmation. “Both sound like excellent references. I’m sure they’ll be a great help.”

He let her platitudes roll over him, for the large part just ignoring them. Was it time to leave, yet?

RING!

Ah, there was the final bell.

He stood and swung his bag over his shoulder, ignoring the mildly offended sputtering of his councilor.

“Sorry, I gotta catch the bus.”

He got out of the office as quickly as he could without running. He practically ran out of the building, veering away from the bus lane and toward the woods.

A few minutes of walking led him straight to the little den hidden behind a copse of dead trees. He swung his bag back to the ground and unzipped the top with quick fingers.

At the sound of the zipper, a round of whines and snuffling arose from the den. He pulled out the metal bowl and bag of dog food he’d been hauling around all day. It wasn’t the best, by far, but it was affordable and, with the addition of some of his own potions, actually nutritious.

He filled the bowl with dry food, sprinkling the potion mix over and then stirred it around. Moments later, the first small speckled snout emerged from the dark, snuffling around for the food they knew was there.

He clicked his tongue encouragingly, beckoning the mother forward.

She knew him, knew his food was good, so she strode to him, still cautious but not afraid. Her pups, seeing their mother trusted him, bounded out behind her.

Six pups, two girls and four boys. All were a mess of brown and black speckles on white fur, much like their mother. They were adorable, and if he were able, he’d take them all home and keep them with him.

He wasn’t, however. Their landlord was allergic and wouldn’t allow any pets in the building other than fish. He’d already vowed that the moment he got his own place, he’d get a dog or maybe even two. Work up to that impossible dream of his slowly.

He’d have to be satisfied with this, for now.

The pups found the food and began scarfing it down with fervor. The mom sat next to him with watchful eyes and allowed him to pet her.

_Maybe I should do something with dogs?_ He mused silently. _Hmm…_

Vet was definitely out, as was working at the pound. Something in animal rescue might be nice, at least the rehoming part. He didn’t really trust himself with the rescue portion.

Animals being hurt was something that really set off his temper.

Cleaning them, healing them, fostering, that was more his speed. Plus the temptation to hurt the owners as they hurt the pets wouldn’t be as strong.

_The thought of bringing those bastards to justice is an appealing thought, though. Maybe I_ should _really consider police._ He contemplated that for a moment. He shook his head.

He’d have time to think about that in college next year. At this point, he still needed to pick which college he wanted to go to.

For some reason, Mischa wanted him to go to college in Italy near where her brother was working. He wasn’t sure of her motives for that, whether it was just to have the people she hung around together or something else, but he knew he couldn’t afford to move to Italy for college, even if he _did_ know Italian.

His dad had set aside a bit of money for him, but honestly, a full-ride at a good American college was really what he needed.

_Hmmm…_


	14. 1997: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's in college. Papa Graham is cute and embarrassed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually tried to do a bit of my own editing for the chapter and somehow it evolved into two parts. I don't know if this is a good thing, you tell me?
> 
> Also, this was the year I was born, and yet somehow it's strange to think that once computers were several thousands of dollars.
> 
> The one will has is estimated to be worth ~$6500 today.

** 1997 **

George Washington University. He had gotten in to George Washington University.

The acceptance letter had already made its way onto the fridge, proudly displayed underneath a Nawlins magnet. It was hard to figure out who’d put it there, as both Mischa and his stoic father were practically vibrating with excitement and pride.

Next to the letter on the fridge, were his other two applications, both accepting, as well.

Given just how thrilled they’d all been when the George Washington one came, however, it was basically a forgone conclusion which school he’d be going to.

It also didn’t hurt that they offered him a full-ride scholarship, room and board included.

It was way too good to be true, Will had feared. He thought they’d yank the rug out from under him every day, up to even move-in day.

It wasn’t until his suitcase and handful of boxes made their way to the floor of his cramped new dorm room that he could finally acknowledge, _This is really happening._ _I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and find it’s just been some elaborate dream._

He was in college. A _good_ college. One that had a scholarship for tuition _and_ housing _and_ food. One that had looked at his records and thought, _Yeah, this kid is good enough to go here._

The only real downsides he could find so far were mainly to do with the dorms in all honesty.

He’d briefly met his roommate, who was nice enough but a huge party animal. If he was the average college student Will was sure he’d be satisfied with him as a first roommate assignment.

But Will was used to only two people living in his space, and neither of them had stuff they were vehement about no one but them touching.

His roommate, Carson, asked (ordered, really) him not to touch any of his stuff. Will couldn’t help but level the same demand.

He’d see how long the tense peace would last.

The other issue he found, was the RA.

Essentially just camp councilors who were going to school with them, most of them had some sort of superiority over the residents. Especially the one for his floor.

Armed with an extensive (and frankly silly) list of dos and don’ts, he was given what boiled down to almost absolute power over them whenever they were in the dorms.

It also didn’t help that the guy was brimming with a smug, overconfident air at all times.

But as he and his father (with some subtle help from Mischa) put together his part of the room, he couldn’t help but hope that college was going to be the best experience of his life.

His father handed him his newly locked box of herbs, crystals, and candles to slide under his bed (unsurprisingly the bottom bunk).

He’d known, coming to school, that he’d have to be far more discrete if he wanted to avoid the reactions of his high school. So he’d put his supplies in a locked, unmarked box, and his potions in cleaned and repurposed mouth wash and breath spray bottles in his spit kit.

Hopefully that would never catch his roommate’s interest.

After putting that away as well, he shoved as many of his books in the desk shelf as he could, leaving any extras to sit atop the box under the bed.

When he finished with that, he spun around to see what was left to put away.

He found two large, unfamiliar boxes, each covered with blindingly bright neon orange wrapping paper.

He blinked at them. Then again, trying to process both their presence and the color.

With no small amount of effort, Will pulled his eyes from them to an extremely cheerful Mischa and an uncharacteristically bashful Russell Graham.

His father, seeing his son’s silent question, blushed a further red and rubbed the back of his neck with nervous embarrassment.

“…Ya got a full ride.” His daddy explained quietly, head ducked down slightly.

Will blinked again.

His father’s brow furrowed as he searched for the words he wanted.

“I told ya when you were in school, that I saved college money up fer ya.” He tried uncertainly. “But ya got a full ride here. An’ one’a the boys at the boatyard said his son was wantin’ a computer fer school and stuff. I ‘membered ya sayin’ ya went to the library fer the computers. So…” He shrugged uncomfortably. Mischa, who was grinning ear to ear, patted his father on the shoulder comfortingly.

Will’s jaw dropped a tiny bit.

…a computer? His daddy had gotten him a computer? Those things were expensive from what he knew. How much had his daddy managed to save?

“There’s still some money left, too.” The elder Graham continued, unaware of his son’s inner turmoil. “Ya know, iffn ya ever feel like visit’n you ol’ man?”

Mischa, rubbing sympathetically at his dad’s shoulder with an affectionate, ‘Oh, Russ…,” went ignored as Will swept the older man up in a bone-breaking hug.

As his ghostly friend liked to say, ‘Sometimes, Russell Graham was too sweet for words.’

With a lot more blushing and uncomfortable clearing of throats, he and his father unboxed the computer tower and monitor. It took them a while of reading the instructions to figure out how to plug it in and turn it on, but once everything was set, they pressed the power button and sat back.

It blared to life, bright and right in front of their eyes.


End file.
